


Would You Believe Me if I Said...

by AmbulanceRobots



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bass Cannon-Freeform, F/M, I'm clearly a big fat liar, Lúcio torments so nicely, Sorry Not Sorry, That's what I'm calling this ship now, This has been festering in my brain for days, welcome to rare pair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7465680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmbulanceRobots/pseuds/AmbulanceRobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Lúcio is a terrible liar, Tracer finds incriminating evidence, Pharah doesn't even know right now, and Zarya is going to enjoy the rest of her day.</p><p>Aaand, now this has another chapter. It was not going to, but alas.</p><p>Now with 1000% more Lúcio as a terrible patient, Zarya sounding the depths of her patience, Angela just trying to help, and Dad: 76 pretending that he doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The last thing Lúcio wanted right now was to hear the comm on his headset go off.

He would have ignored it, given his current engagement, and he did. For the first minute or so. But it didn’t quit, even though he was doing a great job of blocking it out, and he knew he’d better answer it before the sender started setting off the most piercing, irritating klaxons he’d ever heard come out of an earpiece.

Which was likely to happen sooner rather than later, given that he was probably the only one they were calling. There was a second comm unit in the room, amid a pile of BDUs and heavy blue body armor, and it was mockingly silent.

Next task, then: reaching his visor and earpiece from where they sat on the table a just few feet behind his back.

Harder than it appeared. His partner currently had one of her legs wrapped around his hips, and he entertained no possibility of it moving without her consciously doing so. Which, considering the smirk that skipped across her face, was not looking very likely.

His comm continued to beep incessantly at him. Of all the shitty timing. 

He raked a hand through his loose locks, trying and failing to snuff an exasperated groan. Her smirk got wider.

“So, what are the chances of you letting me go long enough to answer that?” As if the sudden tightening around his waist wasn’t answer enough. Not that he had any desire to go anywhere; his skin was hot and his nerves were on fire and he was still buried in her up to the damn _hilt_ , and really, _now_? They wanted to call him _right now?_

Her smirk stayed firmly in place, made all the more dangerous in appearance with the unkempt splay of her pink hair.

“Not a snowflake’s chance in hell.”

He sighed, hoping a good dose of oxygen to the brain would cool him down just enough to think straight. No luck, she bucked under him. Hard. _Deliberately._ Shit. He managed to swallow a hiss, but just barely.

“Y-yeah, I figured. It was worth a shot trying the easy way first, though.”

She cocked a brow.

“What is the hard way?”

What, did she think he was gonna fight his way out of this? _Please._ She could probably flatten him with a hard sneeze. The hard way was just to reach for it. His current entrapment made that both easier and more difficult; more difficult for the obvious reasons, easier because her grip allowed him to ease his weight out further without any fear of falling. It took some stretching, flailing and twisting, why the hell had he put it way over there? Oh yeah, because he hadn’t had a care at the time where he’d tossed it. At least it hadn’t ended up on the floor by the door, with no small amount of his other stuff.

He finally felt his fingertips glance across the cold edge of his visor, and with some clever finger work managed to get it the couple centimeters closer it needed to be for him to grab it. He sat back up with a grunt of victory, and set about affixing his headset to his ear.

“I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d actually reach it over there.”

“I am surprisingly flexible.”

“Not so surprising, but I do mean to test the limits of that in the very near future.”

Lúcio couldn’t decide if that sounded amazing or terrifying. He’d settle for a combination of both. He keyed his mic and motioned for quiet, but the strange quirk of her brow he received was several shades more mischievous than cooperative.

“Go ahead for Lúcio.”

 _“Oh, look who decided to pick up. Finally.”_ An unusually surly tone from the voice that rumbled over the connection. Something _must_ be up.

“Heya, Winston. How’s it hangin’?”

_“I am not falling for that again. And this is an official channel, what do you think I’m calling for—are you out of breath?”_

Damn, he did notice.

“Would you believe me if I said no?” 

_“Not a chance.”_

“Well, then, it’s what, afternoon-ish? Just a quick sprint around the complex with Tracer.”

A deep, airy huff.

_“Lena is right here, with me. Try again.”_

Lúcio hoped that the curse that fell unbidden from his mouth was under his breath. Considering the arch of one of Zarya’s eyebrows, it might not have been, but she also got to cheat by looking at his face.

“If I told you I was wrestling with a polar bear, would you both believe me and think it sounded badass?” Lúcio _dearly_ hoped Winston couldn’t hear Zarya’s laugh filtering through his end of the connection, especially since it got louder when he tried to shush her.

_“Neither.”_

Zarya was snickering now, dragging her nails down his chest and across his stomach. He tried to glare, and her response was to buck under him again. This was not going well for him at all, on either front. He eventually realized that his silence on the line was going to prove more suspicious than anything, and he swallowed a couple times to ensure that his voice wouldn’t do something to hopelessly embarrass him.

“D-dammit.” Eeeeh, somewhat successful. He’d take it.

If Winston noticed, he didn’t say so.

 _“Regardless, you have ten minutes to get your wind back. Would have been fifteen, but you took your sweet time picking up my call. Talon is stirring vigorously enough that we caught notice, and considering they are masters of the clandestine, finding activity this obvious is either signs of something big, or a very successful trap, because we’re moving on it. 76 asked for you specifically. An old warehouse district. Tight spaces, lots of walls, he wants people who are highly mobile. Hence Lena. And Genji. And_ you _, if you can get your behind in gear. Wheels up in ten, well, nine minutes now, no exceptions, although he’ll be a lot less salty if you can make it in five.”_

Well, that sure explained Winston’s sour mood; he’d be ruffled too if he had 76 breathing grouchily down the back of his neck.

“I copy. Erm, five minutes… might not happen, but I can definitely be there in ten.”

 _“Nine, remember?”_  

“Nine, got it. Tell that old tight-ass that I’m coming.”

 _“Hmph.”_ And Winston cut the line. Thank _God._

Lúcio ran a hand down his face in frustration. Dammit to hell. He would never stop being mad about this. He felt Zarya shift underneath him, but her grip on his hips stayed intact.

“On the way out, hm?”

“Yes, because 76 is a no-fun old fart who crushes joy for amusement.”

“I’m sure you’re aware he would have no way of knowing.” She had one hand idly tracing the tattoo on his shoulder. Her hands were so goddamn warm… he felt there was a good Russian winter joke to be made somewhere.

“Yeah, but it nurses my irritation, so there.” It felt rather pouty of him, but he was having a lot of difficulty caring.

“That’s just how commanding officers are; you’re expected to ask how high when they tell you to jump. Be glad we have one that is merely strict, and not unreasonable.”

“You are gonna hafta convince me of this some other time when I don’t think anything he could tell me right now is unreasonable.” He gestured to the two of them. “All things considered.”

Her smirk was back, and her fingers returned to caressing slow patterns into his stomach.

“About that… how do you suppose to convince me to let you free?”

“Other than the fact that 76 will _murder me in my sleep_ if I don't show up? By finishing what I started.” He ground slowly into her, and was rewarded with a low hiss. “I can get down to the loading bay in three minutes, no problem. The five remaining minutes will be… well spent.”

“Seeing this through to the end, yes?”

“Duh. I’m not an ass.”

Zarya brought a hand up to his face, cupping his jaw, wrapping her long fingers around the back of his neck and knocking his visor askew. She pulled his head down close, pressing a warm, rough kiss into his exposed temple, and purposely blew slowly into the shell of his ear. He would deny forever that his skin prickled and his toes curled and a soft, whimpery sound snaked out of his throat. He felt her grin into his cheek.

“Then you should find something to hold onto, because I am going to pare your five minutes down to just one.”

That sounded like something that would come dangerously close to causing his brain to melt, no matter what the warm tightness in his stomach suddenly had to say about it, and he mentioned such.

“The intensity of that sounds borderline unsafe for my healthhhHHHHHHHRRRNN— _oh holy shit Aleksandra!”_ Well, somewhat. That was about the end of any intelligible speech he could remember as she tightened viciously around him. Not her limbs, those stayed right where they were aside from her other hand under his chin, giving her a good, clear look at his face as her walls squeezed his entire length. Like, there was tight, and then there was whatever hot, wet ecstasy this was that robbed him of coherent thoughts, and completely dissolved both his grey matter and his self control in the time it took her to laugh and roll her hips hard into his.

And it was _awesome._

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t the _wildest fucking idea_ how he got down to the loading bay in one piece. At the speeds he had been going, in his condition, he could have sworn he was going to fall and break his face.

Post his sixty seconds of mind-breaking bliss, Lúcio had been reduced to what felt, to him, like a warm sticky pile of goo. Never mind movement, speech was impossible. The most effort he was able to make was to grunt contentedly into her chest. Good thing it only took Zarya a few moments to collect herself and she was up and moving, dragging him right along with. He figured he must have been at least somewhat compliant and helpful, because there was otherwise no way he found himself pushed out her door and into the hall all suited up and ready to go, light skates and leg plates included (and that was _not_ the kind of armor you could easily force someone into). He could thank muscle memory for not allowing him to taste the wall opposite her room or face plant into the floor, because if he had allowed himself to think about it, he would have found it very difficult to stand with the warm, tingling numbness still radiating through all his limbs. At least getting to the bay was the easy part; just down the hall to the elevator and he’d be on his way.

Wait, no, turn around. Down the _other_ hall, to the other-other hall, elevator, and _then_ he’d be on his way.

He’d kicked most of the pleasant numbness by the time he coasted into the loading bay with three minutes to spare. Winston was exchanging words with 76, who turned his head when the burly scientist’s attention was diverted from him to Lúcio. Even at the distance he was at, he swore he could hear 76 growl. Just play it cool, he was still early. Ish.

Soldier: 76 turned all the way around to give him his attention, and Lúcio could feel his appearance being raked over. He had done a quick mental checklist himself once he had been cognizant enough to think straight. All his equipment was accounted for, and 76 seemed to take that in, since Lúcio didn’t feel the start of a “what the hell is this shit” rant coming his way. Swear, 76’s disapproval could run so thick, a person could _taste it_ in the air.

“Heeeey, what’s happenin’ over here? Didn’t know you were in on this too, Winston.”

Winston just grunted and rolled his eyes, but 76 jabbed a finger sharply at the craft they were taking.

“You. Get in now.”

Well, now he knew how this mission was gonna go.

It was in extremely poor judgment to even give the air of disagreement when 76 was itching to leave, so he just gave a sloppy half-salute and skated up the loading ramp. Genji and Tracer were already inside, and they greeted him with a short nod and an enthusiastic wave, respectively. Settled deeper inside the craft was Hanzo, who acknowledge him with his gaze and little else. Lúcio could hear 76’s heavy boot steps coming up the ramp behind him, and he suppressed a sigh. They had _both_ irritable grouch-potatoes on this mission? Oh mercy, please. 

Haha, because Mercy—never mind, the only people in this boat with any sense of humor were Tracer and himself (Genji's own sense of humor seemed to fluctuate almost unpredictably, depending on his proximity to his _never-any-fun-ever_  brother). This was gonna be a long ride. He copped a seat next to Lena, hoping to keep himself out of the way of grumpier, broodier bodies.

Tracer was arguably the best pilot in this vessel, but Winston settled himself into the cockpit. It didn’t matter much; they had so far been able to avoid any dogfights with Talon (which Lúcio considered a boon, since he would _much_ rather engage an opponent when he was on the ground, in control of his own movements, and not likely to die in a fiery crash). Even so, it took a gruff bark from 76, snapped in next to Genji, for Tracer to stop looking over the gorilla’s shoulder and sit down. But that was less about a lack of confidence in his piloting ability, and more her _in_ ability to keep still.

The trip was estimated to take at least two hours from departure to arrival, but 76 jumped right into his mission briefing. At least three small Talon teams seen stalking through some back streets, combing the area in sections. They were hunting for something, or someone, and were unlikely to entrench themselves once engaged. This would be a running fight in a densely built urban area, hence why everyone here had the ability to either cover ground quickly or make good use of the infrastructure, or both. And then 76 started to get technical, and Lúcio just couldn’t bear it any more. He knew, intellectually, that he should be paying as close attention as possible—Soldier: 76 had been doing this for far longer than he had, hell, probably longer than he’d been alive—but his brain was just not up for following along yet. Of course, that also meant he could get a face full of “could have avoided that but didn’t listen to the warnings,” so he continued to stubbornly attempt to remain attentive, but he sure hoped that 76 couldn’t see his eyes glaze over. Lúcio’s body was still reminding him that there were other places he’d rather be than right here, areas that weren’t sore yet but would get there quickly, and he was still carrying a marked increase in sensitivity that tingled across his skin every now and then.

The old man was eventually diverted to answer some curious questions from Genji (and surlier questions from Hanzo), and Lúcio felt Tracer lean into his personal space, beckoning him closer to whisper.

“Hey love, you feelin’ alright?” 

Figures _she_ would notice his lack of focus, at least. A member of Overwatch’s old guard, she was far more used to dropping everything, packing up for a mission that could be either hours or days, and had long since trained her brain to switch fluidly from rested to alert at the drop of a hat. He wished he could do that.

Except for that one time, but she had also been able to blame a cold, piercing hangover, which he remembered because him and Hana had been nursing ones to match.

“Yeah. Just tired, but yeah.” Not a lie, yet. He shrugged a shoulder.

She smirked at him.

“From all that ‘racing’ we did today?”

Ooh, ouch, yeah. Figures that story would come back to bite him in the ass. He hoped she wasn’t too miffed about it. He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“Yikes. Sorry about that. Didn’t really mean to throw you under the bus.”

“Ah, don’t worry over it. You clearly needed the cover, even if it didn’t do ya much good.” She grinned hard, and gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. He returned both gestures; their group may have their share of ogres, but he appreciated her near unflappable upbeat attitude. Kept him from getting bored, more often than not. At least if he was going to get dragged out on a mission by his ears, so to speak, he got to go with her.

But, of course, it wouldn’t last; the universe was determined to undermine his happiness as often as possible today. Tracer’s eyes flicked over him again, caught on something, and her grin took on a particular edge that told him he was not going to like whatever fell out of her mouth next. “So Lúcio?”

“Hm?”

“What _were_ you doing?”

“Nothing really.” Aaand let the lying start. Today’s tactic? Deny everything.

“Oh yes?”

“Yup.”

Tracer pulled her goggles away from her face just enough to look at him over the rims.

“Are you _sure_ you have nothing to tell me?”

“Nothing you want to know about. True story.” He put on the most innocent face he could manage. It did not appear to be working.

“Don’t make me start having to draw conclusions now.”

“And what do you have to draw conclusions about?” Other than the fact that he was not being convincing _at all._

“Lúcio, love, you showed up for a mission sweaty, out of breath,” and she hooked a finger into the hem of his jersey, “and with your shirt on both inside out _and_ backwards.”

Lúcio could feel himself start to flush hard, and he hoped that she wasn’t going to notice. No luck, she noticed, and the grin on her face turned slowly into a giggle fit that drew glares from both 76 and Hanzo. She thumbed a spot just under his jaw, right on top of his pulse.

“At least tell me if it’s the same person who left this mark on your neck.”

Please, just let him bail from the hatch now. He’d take his chances with the fall.

 

* * *

 

All things considered, Zarya was having a great day.

After pushing Lúcio out into the hall, she had flopped heavily back into bed, determined to let the last stirrings of pleasantness ebb out slowly. She hadn’t _intended_ to pursue any “extracurricular” activities this afternoon, but the hell if she was going to complain about it.

She really should have just let him up when the call came in. It was that particular, mind-fog-piercing sound designed to alert even well-distracted troops that it was time to suit up. Zarya’s brain was used to clearing up quick when she heard it, one of many skills learned while enlisted, but watching Lúcio glare at the thing for a minute was amusing. And, in a small, strict, soldier-run portion of her brain, slightly irritating. Still, he’d eventually reached it (again, not with any of her help), taken his call, and all had ended well. At least on her end. Apparently Soldier: 76 was slightly peeved with his lack of an immediate response.

Interesting English word, “peeved.” She liked saying it. Rubbed off on her from Tracer.

With her morning workout long since over, her afternoon engagement interrupted, and her cannon down for repairs so cleaning it was entirely unnecessary (currently in Torbjörn’s care, for the fabrication of new parts that were above her ability to fix with standard maintenance), she decided to hit the weight room for the second time. It would go far towards burning off some of the excess energy.

She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or pleased that Pharah was the only person in the room when she arrived. Fareeha was good company, but Zarya had been entertaining the idea of a hard, vigorous spar with Reinhardt, had he been available. She was greeted with a smile and a sharp nod, which was returned smartly. Zarya dropped her stuff on the counter against one wall, and strolled leisurely out onto the work floor; she’d just do a quick circuit or two around the room, nothing hard, and maybe a one-rep max at the end.

“Well, someone is in a good mood today.”

Zarya wasn’t expecting to be engaged in conversation, but she found herself entirely open to the idea. She was merely passing the time, regardless.

“What makes you say this?” She quirked a brow in Pharah’s direction, squatting to put one hundred twenty-five kilos on the pec deck.

“There are several people on this base whose mood can be read by the way they walk,” Pharah looked back over her shoulder at her. “You are one of them.”

Huh, interesting to know. Now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure she could list some of the others. Tracer, D.Va, Soldier: 76 in any one of his types of anger. Hanzo, for much the same. Lúcio. 

“Hm. I suppose.”

The weight was enough to be engrossing, if it didn’t push any of her boundaries. Just a few reps in, and she noticed that Pharah had stopped to stare at her. Zarya met her gaze, and she seemed to collect herself a bit.

“Zarya, if I may ask…” She was less blatant about it now, but was still staring.

“Yes?”

Pharah gestured with a finger.

“What happened to your arms?” 

She blinked, and looked down at herself. Sure enough, scattered across her upper arms and shoulders were a series of thin red welts. A few were evenly spaced, some crossed over others. Like she had gone running through brambles. Or engaged in a fight with a rake.

Or like someone had changed his grip.

She bit her lip to kill the grin. She _had_ told him to hold onto something. She hadn’t even noticed when his nails bit her skin. Not like it had stopped him from screaming. Loudly. In Portuguese. That alone was worth the price of having the time cut short, as was watching him melt into her immediately after.

She shot Pharah a smirk. 

“Would you believe that I spent all afternoon wrestling with a jaguar?”

“No, because it would not take _you_ all afternoon,” and she gave a small smile and a roll of her eyes, “and I would feel rather sorry for the poor jaguar.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t worry. He’s alright.” Zarya would never admit that she somewhat enjoyed the slight confusion on Pharah’s face. She turned back to her machine, smile coming entirely unbidden. She stopped fighting it. “I just had to teach him a thing or two.”

And, assuming he made it back in one piece, she had plans to do it all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sorry for any of this.
> 
> I adore Lúcio, and I'll try to give him a break the next time around. I promise I still love you too, 76, but you're an old crust bucket who needs at least a good dozen hugs. At least.
> 
> I know that there are a ton of typos up in here. I can feel them. I'll weed 'em out as soon as I wake back up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I was too lazy to come up with a snappy title to make this monstrosity it's own fic. My bad.

“I’m not that sick. Really. _Honest_.”

Zarya crossed her arms over her chest, swallowing what would have probably have been her tenth sigh in the last five minutes, watching the tiny huddle of misery that glared defiantly up at her from his position on the rec room couch.

Lúcio, frankly put, was absolutely disgusting when ill, no matter his vigorous insistence to the contrary. His eyes were puffy and red, his skin had absolutely drenched the comforter he had swaddled himself in hours ago and yet he refused to remove it (because “it wasn’t that sweaty”; her ass it wasn’t, you could wring it out into a desert and make the world’s grossest oasis), and she wasn’t going to touch on the other oozy nonsense happening to the rest of his face. He had chills, couldn’t keep down solid food, and had a fever that was probably atrocious if he’d just get himself checked. Which led right back to the current standoff. Lúcio’s stubborn glower would have garnered more respect if his eyes were entirely focused and he didn’t ruin the look with a loud, wet sniffle that Zarya could practically feel in the back of her _own_ throat.

“Just go, Lúcio.”

“I ain’t gonna bother Angie with something as minor as this.” Another sniffle. “She’s busier with other stuff.”

“No one is in medical now. The bay has been clear for days. You should know, you helped her clear it.”

“I guess. But she’s got other things to do. Important things.”

Zarya shifted her weight.

“Like what?”

“T-things. Doctor stuff.” _Another_ sniffle. It was a minor miracle that he could still breathe through his nose at all. “And really, I’m alright. This’ll be over quick enough.”

Never mind that this was the first time he had shown his face in the last twenty-four hours. Lúcio’s symptoms had come on abruptly, peaking over the last couple days; yesterday he hadn’t come out of his room at all. Hana had found him there, face-down on his floor in a blanket, after he was a no-show through the afternoon; whatever best-friend magic he had worked to convince her to not out him to Dr. Zeigler, Zarya couldn’t even fathom. He should probably still be in his quarters, but he had planted himself on the couch this morning after breakfast (which, for him, was pretty much just however much orange juice Hana and Lena could force into him, and no, they would not allow him to add cachaça to it). Social soul that he was, Zarya was quite confident that his emergence this morning was far more about boredom and loneliness than about him actually feeling any better. Probably why he had chosen to perch at the main couch, and greeted everyone who walked by as joyously as his fever addled brain and face-oozing would allow. Most people, wisely, didn’t stick around long enough to contract whatever he had. A few had only engaged him in conversation while standing on the other side of the room.

And then there was Junkrat. From where Zarya had spent her early afternoon “cleaning her cannon” for the umpteenth time in the kitchen (see also, never admitting to keeping an eye out in case Lúcio finally passed out from his illness), she watched the Junker fling himself bodily onto the couch to join Lúcio in front of the tv. Lúcio didn’t have any problem with this, never mind showing appropriate signs of drowsiness, but Zarya wondered how his compromised immune system would handle whatever Junkrat dragged in with him. Which could really be anything, based on the recent dinner incident that Genji had proclaimed as “seagulls are not Cornish game hens.” She still wondered how no one had gotten sick from that (and she was still too embarrassed to admit that she had been hungry enough to eat almost three of the things before noticing that something was amiss).

Lucky for both Zarya’s sanity and Lúcio’s wellbeing, Roadhog did not allow Junkrat to idle for long. He lumbered into the room on Junkrat’s heels, took one good look at Lúcio, sighed, before deftly lifting his charge off the couch by the back of his belt and dragging him off, to much complaining and flailing. Whether it was to spare Lúcio or so that he couldn’t give his disease to lanky Junker, Zarya neither knew nor cared. Lúcio just gave a wet laugh and a lazy wave from the couch as they left.

And now she found herself here, willing to try just about anything to convince him to hobble down to Dr. Zeigler’s office for treatment, short of just carrying him there. And she wasn’t too far from that last option, either. She would just need to remember to wash her hands afterwards.

Lúcio sighed as he wiggled deeper into the cleft between the cushions and the back of the couch, as close to entrenching himself as he could get. He gave her a tired grin.

“I’m fine, Zarya. Really. I don’t get sick often.” 

“But you are sick _now.”_

“I don’t feel that bad.” And he sure as hell did not meet her gaze when he said it. Even if he had, it did little to mask the lie that it was.

“Yes, you do. You watched McCree walk by with an armful of stuffed donuts and didn’t even ask for one.”

Lúcio gave a sniff that was half congestion, half grudging concession, before his brow quirked, and he peered sideways up at her.

“You’ve been watching me all afternoon?”

“Out of frustration.” Her lie felt just as paper-like as his did, and she stubborned the feeling away.

“Aw, you do care!”

“Of course I care, otherwise I would not be having this argument with you about your ridiculous aversion to self treatment.” And she was glad that his mind was not clear enough to make a snappy comeback about “walking it off.” Because few things would be more aggravating right now than him using her own excuses against her; currently, she didn’t feel like facing her own hypocrisy.

“You can treat me,” and he managed to weasel his arms out of their blanket confines. The action took longer than it should have, and was appropriately pitiful. He reached for her as if for a hug. “Kiss me and make me better.”

Zarya hoped that her blush was adequately disguised as she drew herself up to her full height, attempting to fully indicate her degree of Not Going To Happen.

“I am kissing no part of you until you are no longer infested.” _Seriously._ “Never mind washing my hands, I would have to wash out my mouth.”

“Aw.” And he managed to squirm back into the blankets again. Once comfortable, he gave her a smirk that was noticeably less smarmy than he probably intended. “I would call you no fun, but we both know that ain’t true.”

And Zarya was forced to hide her urge to grin behind a loud groan of exasperation, running a hand through her hair.

At least his sense of humor was intact.

She looked around the room as she sorted through any other arguments she may have before resorting to doing this the more, ehm, _forceful_ way, before looking sharply back at Lúcio as he began having a violent coughing fit. When this was done, that couch was going to get disinfected or burned, she cared not which, but before that, she watched for any signs of him throwing up a lung. It sounded that bad.

Something in Zarya’s brain clicked, and she dug out her phone. Well, if Lúcio wasn’t going to go to the clinic himself, then she would get the clinic down here. His fit lasted only another few seconds, but it was all she needed. Lúcio regarded her through eyes that were even wetter than his current usual.

“Are you taking pictures of me?” His frown looked far more like a squint.

“Yes, to torment you with later.”

Not exactly untrue, in a manner of speaking. A couple taps of the keys and her message was on its way, eight seconds of video with the caption, _:he won’t come to the clinic even though he is gross.:_

It did not take long at all to get a response, in Dr. Zeigler’s usual punctuality.

 _:Not surprising. How recent was this?:_ Her texts were also, always, grammatically accurate.

_:just now, still next to him:_

_:He’ll be more tractable if you don’t drag him up here, tempting as that is. Are you able to come pick something up?:_

_:on my way:_

Zarya slipped her phone back into her pocket. Lúcio continued to squint up at her, which did not lessen in the slightest as she turned to leave.

“Where’re you goin’?”

“Elsewhere, so that I do not catch your disease.”

Lúcio gave her a tired grin, and pulled his blanket up around his ears.

“Don’t you have, like, steel blood? Pretty sure you can’t catch a simple flu.”

And Zarya resisted the urge to fondly ruffle his dreads. Ugh, if he wasn’t carrying some manner of disgusting infection…

Zarya straightened, and strode purposefully out of the room. To that end, she had a meeting to keep with Dr. Zeigler, who she had no doubt was the provisioner of whatever was needed for her to end this nonsense.

* * *

 

When Zarya arrived, Dr. Zeigler was prodding at one of Soldier: 76’s arms. Her stance and the slant of her shoulders spoke of mild exasperation (Zarya knew from recent experience, if anything). Her voice let Zarya know that the discussion was not a new one.

“When I said ‘go easy on this arm,’ that did not mean ‘slam this shoulder into a door.’”

“Sometimes forcible entry works that way, Angela.”

“I would tell you to stay off of it entirely, but since I know you won’t listen to me, would it kill you to use your _other_ shoulder instead? You do still have two of them, by some miracle.” And if Dr. Zeigler indulged in such things, Zarya would have probably tasted some sarcasm.

“I’ll try to remember next time.” 76, however, had _all_ the sarcasm.

Zarya gave them their space, falling into a patient parade rest by the door. They bickered lightly as 76 was allowed to shrug his black underlayer back on, and Dr. Zeigler retrieved a pair of orange prescription bottles from a nearby cabinet. The exchange seemed… familiar, and comfortable. And old. Like they had been doing this for a long time. Soldier: 76 had been one of the last people to walk into Gibraltar, ahead of only the recently-apparently-not-dead Captain Amari (not to be confused with the _current_ Captain Amari, and hell if that didn’t give Zarya a headache for a while) and the very recently acquired Australian Junkers. He went only by his call sign, and Zarya had never seen him without his visor and facepiece, but he had walked in like he could own the place. In a few scant hours, he almost did. For all the growling that accompanied it, leadership suited him. There may have been some quirked brows and quiet remarks about the old man who just showed up in the middle of the night, frightened some years out of poor Brigitte, and seemed to shift the entire upper echelons of the inhabitants of Gibraltar, but there was no denying how all the badge-bearing members of the old Overwatch rolled him into the team. Right there near the _top_ of the team. Winston had attempted to relinquish his role as leader of the group almost immediately, and although it had been largely (and loudly) unsuccessful, there was no denying whom the scientist pulled a great deal of his consultations from. If Winston lead the new Overwatch from Gibraltar, you could expect Soldier:76 to lead in the field. Even McCree, who quite vocally took no orders at face value, just tipped his hat and acknowledge it as so. If anyone gave the old man any real grief, it was done behind closed doors.

There was something else, though. While the acceptance was pretty bald, Zarya could feel something prickly and tense under the surface. When asked about it, Reinhardt had laughed his usual loud laugh, and told her that 76 came with all the complications of an old friend. Even in him, though, Zarya could feel it. That tension. An exchange over dinner, between Torbjörn and Reinhardt, wriggled up from her thoughts.

“Ya shoulda waited fer me. I woulda loved to deck ‘im, too.”

“Time would not have slowed enough for your short legs to make it. Had to do it when I was afforded an opening. He is still as fast as the Devil himself.”

Soldier: 76 had been well within earshot, sitting on the couch, and it did not cause even the least bit abatement in the conversation. Lúcio had coughed, Hana squinted suspiciously between all three parties, and Lena did a terrible job of hiding her grin behind a forkful of mashed potatoes. Zarya herself had quirked a brow; Reinhardt had _punched_ 76? Like, just full power? She didn’t know what had fueled such a vigorous dispute, but it would take something egregious for her to strike a commanding officer. Very, _very_ egregious.

Dr. Zeigler gave a resigned sigh before turning to smile at her, and Zarya pushed her thoughts to the back of her mind, to be examined later. It had been a few months since the entire incident, and since it did not seem, on the surface, to be affecting team cohesion, she wouldn’t let it bother her. Above her grade and none of her business, in any event. She found herself being beckoned towards a counter, and she relaxed from her parade rest.

“No need to wait over there, Zarya. Don’t mind us, just a doctor trying to remind her patient that injuries will heal if only you don’t aggravate them further.” She set the two orange bottles right next to her patient, on an exam table. “And that if he wants an easier time of it, he will take _this_ painkiller and _this_ anti-inflammatory as directed.”

A snort from 76 as he regarded the both of them, but nothing more. He pocketed both provided bottles, regardless. Zarya wasn’t sure if it was because he would actually take them, or if it was to get the doctor to leave him alone.

Dr. Zeigler had another prescription bottle sitting on her desk. Clear this time, and with far fewer items in it. She shuffled through a few papers before sighing, and passing the bottle to Zarya.

“Considering the abruptness of Lúcio’s symptoms, I would presume he has the flu. Incidentally, he is one of the few people on this base without any even remotely recent record of a flu vaccine.”

“He may have said something to this effect as well.” She figured she should at least clarify; most of what he spouted was a thinly constructed argument about the state of his wellbeing, with only a couple brief words about the nature of his illness. “The flu part, I mean.”

The doctor gave her a pointed, knowing look.

“He should know; I had him treat Mei-Ling for similar symptoms last week.”

Zarya sighed, and she was not quite fast enough to stop this one. She squeezed her hand around the bottle.

“Tiny, stubborn man, who doesn’t ever stop to take care of himself.” Again, Zarya found herself reflexively burying any thought of her own hypocritical conditioning, adopted from tours with the RDF.

Dr. Zeigler muttered a soft, “we have a couple of those in this base,” even as 76 turned to look Zarya in the face. His voice implied wry amusement.

“Welcome to babysitting medics. Even the best of them make the world’s shittiest patients.”

The doctor present put her hands on her hips.

“And what does that say about pigheaded old soldiers?”

“Hmph, your kind are still worse; you and yours actually _do_ _know better_.” He got slowly to his feet, rolling his shoulder. Zarya could see that the motion did not go unnoticed. “At least that boy knows how to get himself to a bed and _sleep._ ”

Dr. Zeigler was still staring at his apparently injured arm, but it did not seem like she would inquire about it further.

“I have things to do.”

Zarya found herself biting down on her lip to kill a smile. That whole exchange sounded remarkably similar to her and Lúcio’s. Something something “doctor stuff.”

76 just huffed.

“I’m _sure_.”

The Swiss doctor rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

Zarya looked at the clear bottle in her hand. Huh, just three pills, in a similarly small array of sizes, shapes and colors. Dr. Zeigler had not yet labeled it, but she strode over once she caught sight of Zarya’s inspection.

“Get him to take these as soon as you are able. Preferably with a little food, but barring that there should hopefully still be orange juice in the kitchen refrigerator.”

“And these will cure him?”

“No, they will not. I’ve given you an antihistamine, ibuprofen, and a cough suppressant; they will help alleviate his symptoms, but will not touch the virus itself.”

Zarya felt herself frown, and she smothered it as soon as possible. That was rather what she had been originally hoping for.

“Do we have anything that can do that?”

“Yes, but that will come later this afternoon; antihistamines like the one there frequently make people drowsy. Aside from wanting him to sleep, so that he cannot track the virus around the whole base, we will be using that side effect to our advantage. It’s the reason I’m not giving him a decongestant, which has the opposite side effect.” 

Zarya cocked her head slightly, curious.

“If I may ask, what reason other than to sedate him would we want the ‘drowsy’ side effect?”

Dr. Zeigler gave her a soft smile that, if Zarya was perfectly honest, was laced with a surprising amount of cunning.

“Interesting choice of words. We do, indeed, want him sedate,” and she strode to a small refrigerator under a counter, “because _this_ is going to be his antiviral treatment.” And she pulled an item from the refrigerator door, and something from a container on the counter.

Some manner of solution. And a needle.

Oh. _Oh._ Well, that explained some things. And raised other questions. Zarya shifted her weight.

“I didn’t know he was… uncooperative with such treatments.” The man had willingly gone toe-to-toe with a very powerful, very wealthy, very aggressive company with some very _lethal_ assets, and he was afraid of _needles_? Please.

Dr. Zeigler put the bottle back inside the fridge and set the needle back inside its container. She straightened, and leaned back against the counter.

“Intellectually, he gets it. He isn’t squeamish around blood, even his own, and he has no problem handling needles or administering intravenous and subcutaneous interventions to others. But when approached with one, he will start finding any reasonable or unreasonable excuse to be somewhere else. There are oral antivirals as well, but considering his recent track record of keeping things down, I want to make absolutely sure that this treatment sticks.” She folded her arms over her chest, and gave a low sigh of resignation. “I have had far worse patients, truly, but considering who we are treating, I would much rather not spur him into a wild chase through the base.”

Zarya could not help but agree; even while sick, a well-motivated Lúcio with any manner of a head start would probably prove to be… surprisingly athletic (she was, however, now going to add “intravenous” and “subcutaneous” to her list of English words to look up for a clean definition; given the conversation, she could safely assume that they were some variety of “stab with needle, squirt in medicine”). Zarya slipped the bottle into her pocket, and with an honest “thank you” to Dr. Zeigler and a sharp, respectful nod to Soldier: 76, she turned and marched out of the clinic. She did not honestly think that getting Lúcio to take a simple prescription would be all that difficult.

She was not so sure, however, that the second part would be accomplished without some loud, entirely unnecessary melodrama.

* * *

 

Jack had not planned to be a part of any of this. Really, when he passed Angela in the hall, a small bottle and a capped syringe in one hand, he already knew what she was after, and where she was headed. But he was merely on foot patrol—“wandering aimlessly” his mind supplied, and he brushed it roughly aside—and so he found himself turning on his heel and following behind her. She hardly needed him; Lúcio was a tiny kid, and was more tractable than many currently residing in Gibraltar, but he went along anyways. At the very least, he may get some amusement out of it.

No, the real overkill was when they entered the kitchen, where Zarya was busy burying at least one bagel in her face. She nodded as they entered, but straightened when Angela wiggled the bottle and syringe. Zarya gestured towards the couch, and wiped her hands clean. Now really, this was getting a little out of hand. Compared to Lúcio, this girl was a monster, easily his superior in size by at least a foot and a hundred pounds. Jack would bring her along if they were wrestling giant _bears,_ not giant babies.

He gave a grunt from over Angela’s shoulder.

“Ladies, what the hell. I was led to believe that we are administering an antiviral to a kid who won’t just suck it up, not darting jaguars in the jungle.”

For some reason, that caused the corners of Zarya’s mouth to quirk a bit, before she schooled the reaction back down. Hm, odd, but none of his business.

Angela turned her head enough to regard him.

“We are. I aim to make this as quick as possible. I assume that Zarya is here in case he gets… squirmy. I did not ask her, but I will not say no.” And she turned away towards the common room, smiling. He could hear it in her voice. “I would assume that _you_ are here out of boredom. Or worry.”

He growled. He was not worried. Or bored. Or lying to himself. He was just here because—oh, goddammit, whatever. At the sound of his boot steps following after her, Angela cast another look at him over her shoulder. Oh yes, she was smiling.

“Lena is right, you know. No kids, yet so paternal.”

And he almost turned around and left right there. Ever since Tracer had started that joke, she had gotten most of the younger members of the base (Hana and Lúcio duly included, and frustratingly, _McCree_ ) to call him ‘dad’ on a semi regular basis. He had yet to find a punishment suitable to shut them up. Just ahead of him, Zarya said nothing, had yet to ever say anything on the subject, and Jack was quietly grateful. With luck, she would never succumb to that particular idiocy making its rounds through the base.

Angela made her way around to the front of the longest couch in the rec room, and Jack could hear someone stir. Sure enough, a thick mane of dreadlocks soon spilled over the arm of the couch as Lúcio stirred, accompanied by some indiscernible mumbling. He couldn’t hear what was said, but the kid sounded happy enough to see her, and Angela smiled down at him. Zarya parked herself on the couch’s other arm, relaxed enough to not immediately arouse suspicion. Jack got close enough to make out what was being said, in time to hear Lúcio croak something at Zarya. Shit, was that his voice? It sounded like someone had taken to the inside of his throat with a sander.

“Still lurking over me?”

“Merely assuring that you have not yet expired from your illness.”

“Dammit, Zarya, it’s a _flu._ I’m not going to die.” And he said this vigorously enough to send himself into a coughing fit. Zarya arched a brow, deigning to shoot Lúcio a small smirk. He recovered quick enough, but those last few coughs sounded lung-rippingly painful. He squinted up at her; it was probably supposed to be a glare, but it was about as threatening as a kitten in a sock, so Jack would call it a squint. “You did that on purpose.”

Zarya’s smirk widened. 

“Maybe.”

Lúcio gave a wet snort, before looking Jack’s way. He just grunted, snatching the remote from where it was unguarded on the coffee table, despite the kid’s protests. He flopped heavily onto the other couch.

“Don’t mind me, boy, I’m just here for the tv.” He had no idea what he planned to watch, but that really didn’t matter. He could feel the wet, squinty eyes on him too, but the kid didn’t complain too much.

Angela was busy donning a pair of gloves.

“You still don’t sound good, but how are you feeling? Any noticeable change since midday?”

“Th’ cough is better, at least. Shorter, less painful.” He paused as she put her hand against his forehead. “I still can’t quite breathe through my nose, and I still hurt… everywhere, but at least my lungs sound like they _might_ stay inside my chest.”

She nodded, slipped the yet-unseen syringe and vial into her coat pocket, and pulled out a small, white device instead.

“Hand, please.”

Lúcio wiggled around in his blanket cocoon (which, if Jack didn’t know better, looked slightly damp, ew) and was able to free a hand for her. She pushed the device into his palm for a moment, removing it only once it beeped at her. She released his hand and looked at the readout, sighing.

“Well, it could be worse, but really—“

“Oh, oh! Before you tell me, can we take bets?” Lúcio sounded so hopeful, Jack couldn’t help but shift his gaze over. Angela’s shoulders slumped in that way that told him that she was less than willing to entertain the notion. From her perch on the arm of the couch, Zarya barked a laugh. Lúcio grinned up at her from his end of the couch. 

“Five bucks,” he said, and Jack noted that he didn’t specify what nationality of currency, which left him open to some less than optimal winnings, “thirty-seven degrees.”

Zarya crossed her arms.

“Forty-one,” and she shrugged a broad shoulder at the look on his face, “high enough to bake your brain, which I’m sure is boiling in your skull.”

Lúcio turned his attention to Jack, still doing the conversions to Fahrenheit in his head. “What about you, dad? You in?”

And he found himself growling. He must be right delirious, to call him that both to his face and where he had no room to escape.

“I’m with Zarya on this one, kid. Your brain is fried.”

“Tsk, it’s like everyone here thinks I’m terminal.” 

“You _sound_ terminal. Didn’t know you could croak like a frog, too.” 

Lúcio huffed, indignant.

“Says Captain Batman, king of the gravely voice.”

Jack snarled and turned back to the tv, but not before he watched Zarya fight down a smile, Angela hide hers behind her hand, and Lúcio sport a shit-eating grin so wide it rivaled anything McCree, Genji, or Lena could put forth. Clearly, he had no allies here.

Angela shook her head before returning, thoroughly humored, to the task at hand.

“My turn?”

“That’s not fair, you’re holding the thermometer.”

“Yes, that’s the point.” She slipped the device back into her pocket, putting her hands on her hips. “Thirty-nine point four,” and Zarya pumped her arm in victory, “warm enough that you should have sought me out earlier. It won’t kill you, but we should endeavor to bring it back down.”

Lúcio whimpered, and sunk further into his blanket.

“Oh, please, no ice water bath…”

“No, that’s bit too extreme for what you have, but we should at least start attacking the fever’s source.”

“Ain’t that what you gave me already?”

“No, it wasn’t, and don’t think you can fool me. You already know what you took, and you know it was not an antiviral.”

“Angie…” And if Lúcio hadn’t known what was coming before, he definitely did now, eyeing the slight bulge of the items in Angela’s lab coat. Zarya, still seated on the couch, did not _quite_ stand up, but she was noticeably less relaxed.

“ _Lúcio_.” And Angela slipped her hand into her pocket. “Now is the time to take this. You’ve been feeling the symptoms for just under forty-eight hours, which means that the antiviral will still be effective.” She pulled out the vial and the syringe, uncapping the needle, and inserting it into the head of the vial. “I am going to need that arm back, please.”

Lúcio looked up at her, clearly weighing his options. He was wrapped tightly in a comforter (his own doing), supine on a couch (again, his own doing), and cornered by at least two people (Jack didn’t quite count himself, since he had no plans to lift a finger in this, but it was not clear if Lúcio knew). Eventually he sighed, resigned, and squirmed until he had _both_ his arms free of the blanket. And suddenly, Jack could taste the duplicity in the air.

In combat, Lúcio heavily favored crafty mobility over any manner of force, and he was charismatic enough to pull off some truly spectacular feints. When he really tried, reading him could actually be… difficult. This however, on the difficulty scale of reading people, was less like War and Peace, and more like See Spot Run. Jack watched all his muscles coil, and he made to take off over the back of the couch.

Now, he was also, generally, about as graceful as an antelope, and watching him sprint around the base with Lena was enough to make anyone feel older than they were. This current bout of athleticism was like watching a fish attempt to flop back into a bucket. His legs were still hindered by the blanket, so he attempted to seal slide his way off the couch. He got about as far as Jack thought he would; namely, not far enough out of Zarya’s reach. She took a single step towards him, grabbing him firmly by one arm and the associated shoulder, and hauled him effortlessly back down to the flat of the couch. He squirmed, and she stepped in towards him, pinning him firmly, stomach down.

It was, Jack was sure, the gentlest submission hold he had seen out of anybody, ever. Girl knew her hand to hand. Granted, the gap in strength was such that she had had plenty of slack to play with, allowing her to loosen her grip in key places that, against a suitably strong opponent, could jeopardize the integrity of the hold. She had no such problems, now. Zarya kept a firm grip on his arm, but moved closer to his shoulder, which gave Angela a clear, open shot at the exposed vein in the hollow of his elbow.

Lúcio gave an indignant squawk, and writhed underneath her grip.

“Traitor!”

Zarya ignored him, adjusting her hold just enough that his upper body was entirely immobile.

“Be still.”

“N-no!”

“ _Yes._ ” Jack watched as she moved her hand from the swell of his shoulder to the curve of his neck, no less gentle but just as firm. “Calm down. You are being ridiculous.” Amen to that.

“You’re not the one about to get stabbed!” And he looked back over his shoulder at her. Zarya was no fool; she had placed herself in between his possible line of sight and the rest of his arm. Kid wouldn’t even see Angela coming. It remained to be seen if he would _feel_ it. She had taken gentle hold of his elbow in one gloved hand, and he didn’t seem to notice. Of course, when also presented with Zarya’s grip, Jack figured that Lúcio was wholly paying to an entirely different pair of hands.

“Do you know how much blood work, drug testing, and medical evaluations I have had to endure? When you are an athlete, and you compete, it is constant. Never mind the vaccinations required for travel. It is nothing I am not long since used to.” And Zarya swiped a thumb over a thin, pale line that skipped from the back of Lúcio’s neck and disappeared into his shirt down his back. “And then I enlisted. I’ve had far worse since. And so have you.”

Lúcio’s breath seemed to hitch; apparently, he knew exactly which of his scars she was prodding (and Jack was surprised to realized that he didn’t even know the kid _had_ scars).

“Th-that’s different.”

“How so?”

“It just is! I don’t know. Wounds hurt, yeah, but you expect it when you pick fights. Especially when you pick fights with corporate assassins like Vishkar.” 

Zarya gave a thoughtful hum.

“I have seen some of your other scars. The one on your right arm, where you described it as ‘the inside meats turning into the outside.’”

Well. That was vivid. Lúcio gave what would have probably been a shrug, but was suitable muted by his restraint. Probably more meant to be felt than seen, anyways, considering whom his conversation was with.

“Painful, yes. Gross, yes. But considering that th’ Vishkar mook was trying to take my damned _head_ off, I count that as just a scratch.” And he squirmed a little, but it looked less like an active attempt to wriggle free, and more like an effort to get comfortable. The kid was relaxing. Slowly, but it was noticeable. He was tired of struggling, enough that it could be heard in his speech. Angela took a packaged disinfecting wipe from her pocket, tore it open with her teeth, and rubbed it lightly over a spot on Lúcio’s arm. “Again, to be expected, considerin’.”

Zarya snorted softly.

“It’s a wonder you managed to sit through this tattoo on your shoulder that you are so fond of. Or did they have to tie you down for that, too?”

“Tattoo needles look totally different.”

Zarya rolled a shoulder. Conveniently, or not, the one also wrapped in dark ink.

“Still a needle.”

“It’s not the word I don’t like, it’s the device.” Lúcio paused to sneeze into the couch, and Jack wondered if there was a practical way to disinfect the entire thing. The kid sighed softly when he was done, going limp underneath Zarya’s pin. She felt it, adjusting her grip accordingly. So did Angela, who made her move. “Besides, tattoo needles don’t go any deeper than your skin. Double besides, art comes out.”

“Did it hurt?” The hand Zarya had placed on his arm moved down to his shoulder, idly tracing the dark lines of the frog sprawled over it. There was something about the gesture that niggled at Jack’s curiosity, and he killed it swiftly. None of his business, either way.

“Well yeah, but _you expect it_. Ya don’t go and get poked a few hundred times with an ink pen and expect to not feel anything.”

Even from his position on the other couch, Jack could see her lips quirk.

“And yet, it seems you do not expect to treat an illness with a concentrated medication delivered…‘intravenously.’”

“…Yeah, I s’pose.” And there was some reluctant grumbling from the couch cushions. “I hate it when you make sense.”

Zarya spared a moment to toss her pink bangs out of her face, and smiled down at him.

“I always make sense.”

“You got off the phone the other day an’ spat out a long sentence of stuff in Russian that I’m pretty sure was just swearing all strung together. That didn’t make any sense.”

Zarya grinned. 

“It would have, if you spoke any Russian.” 

“I guess that ‘splains Briggie’s blush and Reinhardt’s laughin’, then.” He yawned, and Jack didn’t think the kid could get any more slack there on the couch, but he positively melted into it. “God, I’m tired. Tell Angie to hurry up and get this over with. I’m clearly not goin’ anywhere.”

“Dr. Zeigler is still here, and she can hear you. But there is no need, she is already done.”

“What? When?”

Angela smiled, came around the back of the couch, and waggled the now-empty syringe at him. He just stared.

“I may tell you, I may not.” And Zarya relaxed her hold and rose off the couch. Lúcio tested his arm, noting the small patch that had been placed over the injection site. He itched at it, earning a ‘tsk’ and a gentle bat at his hands from Angela. He gave a small pout, before wriggling lazily back into his blanket, pulling it up over most of his head, as if to protect himself from further well-meaning assault. He gave Zarya another of his red-eyed squinty glares.

“No fair.”

Zarya just gave him a toothy, lopsided smile. Angela gently lifted the edge of the comforter around his head, to get a clear view of his face.

“I trust that wasn’t so awful as to be life ending, hm?” And Lúcio just slouched further into the couch. She smiled. “I didn’t think so. Be mindful of your symptoms, please? I’ll come take vitals again after dinner, see if there are any changes. Hopefully we can see some improvement in the next twelve hours, but even so, this won’t clear up for at least another thirty-six.”

“M’kay.” Angela turned to leave and, mild entertainment over, Jack was strongly considering following suit. Mercy made it all the way to the door of the rec room before Lúcio found a voice louder than a murmur. “Thanks, Angie.”

She paused at the door to smile.

“Of course. You know where I am, if you need me. No need to send an intermediary.”

“Yes’m.”

Zarya just snorted.

Angela left, coat swishing behind her. Jack tossed the remote back onto the coffee table, close enough that Lúcio could reach it if he really wanted to. Zarya bent slightly over the couch.

“Now that you are done being a giant child, do you need anything else before I go?”

“No.” Lúcio buried his face in a throw pillow. The sedative properties of his medications must have been punching in right now, Jack figured. The medic looked about half asleep already. “You don’t have to go, y’know.”

“I do, if I do not want to contract your vile illness. Which I do not.” She looked down at her palms. “I was not kidding about washing my hands after touching you.” There was an unintelligible mumble from him as she straightened and turned to leave. She paid it no mind, until he reached out to grab ahold of the fabric of her pants, snagging a finger into the pocket of her cargos.

“You don’t get sick, though.” It was getting harder to understand him by the minute. Jack would later swear that he could hear hints of an accent slip out now and then. Zarya stared down at him, but didn’t break the fragile hold on her pocket.

“Neither do you, and yet, here you are.”

Lúcio buried his entire head up under the comforter. 

“Still sure you are too badass to catch this.”

Zarya reached down to free herself from his grip, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. She detached him, stared, sighed, glared down at the lump under the blanket and looked very much like she was going to leave, and sighed again. Her postured slumped (well, as much as hers _could_ ), and she released his wrist.

“Five minutes. That’s all you get.”

If she received any verbal confirmation, Jack sure as hell didn’t hear it.

She was able to coax him up just briefly, just enough for her to slip onto the couch, next to the armrest. Lúcio lay back down as soon as he felt her weight settle, and Jack watched as he practically melted into her lap. Zarya sighed again, apparently resigned to being a makeshift pillow, one arm propped on the armrest, chin in her hand. Her other hand buried itself in Lúcio’s loose dreads, and Jack decided that right now was a fantastic time to find something else to do. They didn’t need him here anyhow. 

He pushed himself off the couch with a grunt, pausing only to push the remote closer to Zarya’s reach, receiving a quiet nod of thanks for the effort. He clapped her on one broad shoulder on his way past.

As he made his way out the door, Jack swore he heard her growl under her breath.

“If you give me your disease, you little tadpole, I am going to strangle you.”

Properly hidden by his facepiece, Jack let himself grin. They’d be alright. Sure, the kids in this base were wild and nuts and if he weren’t already completely grey then he’d be well on his way, and _hell_ if reining them in was easy, but it could be shittier. Besides, he’d survived the clusterfuck that was the first round of Overwatch, and the fresh blood already had a leg up on some of the old guard.

Just a few months in, and they were already tight. The lot of them took good care of each other, and that made Jack happier than he would ever care to admit, even on his deathbed.

* * *

 Lúcio felt better than he had in _days_.

His vision had cleared, his headache was gone, he was no longer sweating like he had an allergy to moisture, and, best of all, he could eat food again. As if to celebrate his return to health, the universe had given Brigitte kitchen duty; his teammates were confident in his recovery when he was happily shoveling his third helping of her awesome shepherd’s pie into his mouth.

While somewhat loathe to admit it, Angela’s treatment had been right on the money (as always, really), and Lúcio was not too proud to acknowledge such to her. She got an honest, proper thank you once he was well enough to stand and give it. In typical Mercy fashion, she smiled and waved it off as nothing he needed to thank her for. She did, however, forbid him from assisting her in the clinic for at least another twenty-four hours after he stopped feeling symptoms. Didn’t want to inadvertently pass it to anyone else.

Soldier: 76 was noticeably less merciful. Once Lúcio was up and about again, the old man had told him, in no uncertain terms, to disinfect the main couch in the lounge, _or else_. That was fair, really, since there were probably germs all over that thing. He spent quite a few hours removing and washing the upholstery that came off easily, and then steam cleaning the rest. A pain, but he didn’t mind too much. At one point Lena stopped by to help, and by dinner he’d had a small, veritable cleaning party that encompassed the entire rec room. Never mind the main couch, the sheer amount of chip crumbs and stray utensils that came from the _other_ couch and the love seat were borderline legendary (and Hana denied ever contributing to the detritus).

Zarya, when approached about her seemingly inexhaustible patience with him during that trouser-flapping idiocy on the couch, had merely snorted and slung a heavy arm around his neck, dismissing the whole thing with a playful(ly rough!) punch to his shoulder. She didn’t seem to think anything of it, although she let him know that her threat still stood; she didn’t have time in the week to be benched for an illness.

However, she had been oddly difficult to find in the last twenty-four hours. Ah well, she would surface again when she felt like it.

Or, as it turned out, _didn’t_ feel like it.

Lúcio was currently in the clinic, having been given a clean bill of health, and once again allowed to assist Angela in the med bay. Of course, a lot of that meant an abundance of cleaning, but every so often he was afforded the opportunity to do something cool. His medical ability prior to his arrival at the Rock had been limited to “hold on, I’ve got just the song for that.” Still an amazing skill in and of itself, but after his amplifier and suit had taken a Talon bullet (or five), she had endeavored to teach him more “mundane” methods of emergency field treatment while it was down for repairs. Even once he was back up and ready to go, he never stopped taking advantage of having an experienced doctor on hand to pry with questions. More than just answer them, she had been subjecting him to a battery of medical literature, online lectures, and exams. Hard, but he regretted nothing. Lúcio had a feeling he’d be seeing a solid, printed proof of his efforts in the near future. Regardless, he enjoyed the sheer utility of it, and Angela seemed to appreciate the extra set of hands.

He was loading a tray’s worth of materials into the autoclave, there was always a constant string of stuff to be sterilized between the clinic and the lab, when someone came thundering in through the med bay doors. Given the heaviness of the footsteps, it could only be a small handful of people. One was out of the base, taking his trademark booming laugh with him, another wasn’t ever seen anywhere near the clinic unless his lanky charge had managed to blow himself up again, and the last one… Lúcio turned, in time to see Zarya making a deliberate beeline towards Angela, currently at her desk, just before she caught sight of him. Her eyes narrowed, and a growl rolled out of her throat that could make a crocodile run away screaming.

“ _You!_ ”

Oh, no. He knew what was wrong immediately; her skin was flushed and her eyes were red and he’d bet if he took her vitals right now they would include a temperature well above normal. She hadn’t been seen at either dinner last night or breakfast this morning, and he was confident that it was because she could hardly even stomach the sight of food right now. Zarya didn’t feel the cold easily, but she was well bundled in a large, thick sweatshirt and pants. Probably due to the chills.

Well, sure explained her recent absence. She didn’t like letting people see her at any less than one hundred percent.

“Please, say you don’t.” Never mind that it had been awful and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone here, considering how their last conversation on the rec room couch had gone, she was the last person he wanted to catch it.

He may have flinched when she tensed, and hissed.

“I _do!_ And it is _all your fault_!”

Thankfully, Angela did not allow the dispute to get much more vigorous than that, rising from her office chair. She gave Zarya a small, knowing smile.

“You too now, hm?”

“Yes. Unfortunately. _For someone._ ”

Lúcio gave a quiet ‘meep’ from his corner of the clinic. Angela arched a brow at him.

“This _is_ why a brief self-quarantine is recommended for flu symptoms. It passes surprisingly easily.”

Zarya glared at him over her shoulder, but her words were for Angela. 

“Whatever you gave to Lúcio the other day, I’ll take that.”

“Alright, I can do that. I’ll take an array of vitals from you while we’re at it.” She retrieved a stylus and several other items from a drawer. “Now, do you think you can hold onto an oral antiviral, or would you rather the injection?”

And Zarya wasted no time at all rolling up her sleeve, offering her arm. Lúcio was sure it was at least partially a snub directed at him. Angela shook her head, grinning.

“Silly of me to ask.” And she gestured with a tablet to a chair next to one of several long counters. Zarya immediately threw herself into it. Angela set the tablet on the counter next to her, along with the small collection of other items. She made to retrieve a chair for herself, when one of the monitors at her desk blipped. She looked like she was of half a mind to ignore it, but it continued to chirp at her. She wound her way back towards her desk.

“Hold just a moment, please.” Zarya ran a hand through her hair, but did not argue. She did, however, continue to glare daggers at him from across the room. Angela sat down in front of her monitor, quickly greeted by a video call. Even from the distance he was at, Lúcio could see the black, furry face filling the entire screen.

“Hello Winston.” 

“Good afternoon Angela. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time.”

“Not at all, nothing I can’t delegate.” And Angela motioned for Lúcio with a finger.

“Good. Torbjörn has finished the modifications for your Caduceus blaster, but I would like to discuss some of the parts that you want manufactured for your staff.”

As Lúcio approached, Angela gestured to Zarya, dropping her voice as she leaned around the monitor.

“I trust you are confident enough with the procedure to do it without supervision?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Vitals first, then the antiviral, and I’ll fill her prescription as soon as I’m done. There should be a sterile syringe in a container with an appropriate gauge needle in this third cabinet above the counter.”

“Copy that.”

Slightly easier said than done. The procedure itself was simple enough, but he was going to be well inside of Zarya’s reach while he did it. And she was not at all happy to see him right now. He made his way over, mindful of the stare she was boring into the side of his face as he retrieved a pulse oximeter, BP cuff, and stethoscope from a drawer in the counter. He sat in the chair in front of her, offering her a sheepish smile.

“Heeey…” 

She continued to glare, but it was temporarily broken by a wet sniffle. Lúcio chewed his cheek to keep from smiling. Oh, how the roles were reversed. The hell if he was going to let her know it amused him.

“Laugh. I dare you.”

Too late. Looks like she knew already. He let himself smile a little, pulling on a pair of gloves. She growled, but was compliant enough when he asked for the hand in her lap. He clipped the pulse ox to a finger.

“Naw, I’m good. If there is one person in this room who knows how much the flu sucks ass, it’s me.”

“Hmph.” She leaned back in her chair as he attached the BP cuff to her other arm. As relaxed as she was liable to get at the moment. She let him work without much further grief; vitals were an easy enough process, especially on someone like Zarya who was both used to the procedure, and who was in such great shape as to supply an almost textbook-easy experience. Her radial pulse, for example, absolutely hammered through her wrist (as opposed to Hana’s strangely hard to find vampire pulse). And according to the BP cuff, her pressure was well below normal, which was common enough for athletes. _And_ she was at rest; he wondered how the numbers jumped when she was active. He did lament not being able to use the one of the digital BP cuffs in the clinic, but Angela was adamant; he’d be doing it the old fashioned way until she said otherwise. It would make him better in the field. He scribbled all the values onto the tablet, for Angela’s review later. Everything checked out, at least until he pressed the thermometer into her palm.

He stared at the reading and sighed. Well, to be expected, anyways. He started writing on the tablet.

“What is it?” He looked up, and Zarya canted her head towards the thermometer.

“Thirty-eight point nine degrees. Warm, but not quite as warm as me. I was further along, though, when you sicced Angela on me.”

A snort. It spurred a short bout of painful-sounding coughing.

“For all the good it did me.” 

He shrugged a shoulder.

“Well, on the bright side, you’ll be taking the antiviral before your symptoms get worse; hopefully that will have you back in good health even sooner than me.” Lúcio let himself grin directly into her glare. “Just, hold off on the strangling until I’m done administering it, yeah? Unless you want to tell Angela why she’s stepping around my body to do it.”

Zarya gave a grumpy chuff, but Lúcio noted that it contained a lot less heat than he was expecting. Progress! Not that he ever actually anticipated any truly violent retaliation, but she was not above a rough, if careful, headlock. Which was every bit as fun as it appeared, insert sarcasm here. He took the pulse ox off her finger, and she leaned her head over the back of the chair, throwing her arm over her eyes. Lúcio stood briefly to retrieve the prepackaged syringe and needle from the cabinet above them, before opening the refrigerator door for the antiviral solution.

“I am sorry, you know.” He put the needle on the syringe, before uncapping the entire thing with his teeth. “I didn’t _want_ you to get it. And I kinda didn’t want you to know about my ‘needle panic,’ either. Embarrassing, but I haven’t been able to kick it, yet.”

She gave a long, slow sigh, and Lúcio watched her relax. She eventually turned her head slightly, peeking out at him from under her arm. “I’m aware.”

Lúcio offered her another small smile before she buried her face under her arm again. It was silent for a while as he swabbed disinfectant over the hollow of her elbow. Good to know that her displeasure at him, either real or falsified, had dissipated. She didn’t stir in the slightest when the needle pierced her skin. He was jealous, a little.

“You know,” and Zarya snorted softly. Not quite in amusement, but almost, “this is clearly that divine punishment we discussed.”

“Oh?” Lúcio withdrew the needle, putting pressure on the puncture as he retrieved a patch. She stared at him from under her arm again. She dropped her voice low enough that Angela couldn’t hear both them and Winston, but just loud enough to hiss.

“Do not give me that. We mentioned that, if not by the higher-ups at Gibraltar, we were going to be punished for _three specific events_.”

He remembered, all right. But considering the nearby proximity to someone not privy to the information, he was going to make this as difficult as possible. See also, Zarya’s tired, sick frowny face was funny.

“Hm, I don’t seem to remember this.” He tempered a grin, poorly. Her eyes narrowed.

“You are a liar. I do not have to remind you.” She flexed her arm when he released it, rubbing a hand gingerly over the patch. “I blame you for every single one of them.”

He capped the needle, depositing it into a nearby sharps container. He managed to both gesture dramatically with the empty syringe and keep his voice quiet.

“Hey! I will willingly take credit for one and a half of those.” He tossed the syringe into another container for later decontamination. “The big dry storage closet on the second floor was mostly my doing, even if I certainly heard no protests from you.” Because inventory was not fun. He had… made it fun, with her help. That giant pile of unsorted cold-weather equipment? Tested. Thoroughly. Not really in the manner that it was meant to be used, one should never be on _top_ of the tent fabric, but he could confirm. It was warm. “I will only allow you to blame me for half of that incident in the loading bay, because… well, you know why.” Because there was no way he was getting her up on top of that plane against her will. The hull near the engines had still been pleasantly warm underneath him. “But the thing that happened on the sparring mats? You. Entirely.”

She had her chin resting in her hand, and she growled softly around her fingers.

“You are remembering wrong.”

He crossed his arms, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder. Angela was still well engrossed with Winston and, assuming he and Zarya didn’t get too loud, would remain blissfully unaware.

“No, I remember that _very_ clearly, believe me, and it was entirely your doing.”

“Nope.”

“Do we need a recap?” And he leaned back in his chair. “Because I sure recall finding myself taken to the floor by a woman who towers over me by at least thirty centimeters, outweighs me by a minimum of sixty kilos, and routinely carries around a weapon that is _also_  both taller and heavier than I am. You rolled me on my back, pinned my wrists to the floor, and asked me, and I mince no words, ‘how much energy do you still have?’ Followed by, ‘let’s see what I can do about that.’” He hadn’t resisted her. Holy hell, that had been awesome, but after ten minutes he had started to feel the mat material rub his spine and shoulders raw. Worth it, though. Totally worth it. It had been a miracle that they hadn’t been caught. “Trust me, I swear I’m still feeling the skin on my back chafe.”

Zarya made a sound in the back of her throat. Lúcio thought she was going to continue to argue with him, but when she moved her head to rest her jaw on her fist he could see one of her wide, lopsided grins.

“That one was… entertaining.” And she pinned him with a look. “Entertaining enough to be repeatable.”

He smirked, swiveling idly in the chair.

“Too bad you are super ill, or I’d do something about it.”

“You will be doing nothing. I believe that I not only have a bet to cash, but I promised retribution for you smearing your infection all over me.”

Lúcio rolled his eyes.

“I believe you sat on that couch willingly.” Stupid of him to think she was going to entirely let that go; he should have also expected her to use it as a bargaining chip towards… other stuff.

“So did several others. And yet, you don’t see any of them—“

The clinic doors slid open. For a moment, Lúcio thought it was someone accidentally tripping the motion sensor in the hall, until Lena shuffled inside at an unusually subdued pace. She looked at them, waving happily. And sneezing. And sniffling.

Oh hell no.

His face must have shown his dismay, because Zarya started laughing. She reached across to clap him heavily on the shoulder.

“I take that back. It seems your disease has gotten around after all.”

And all he could do was give her an unamused stare.

“Hello, loves,” and Lena meandered her way in their direction. “How is everyone here today?”

“Well—“

“Lúcio is back in perfect health, and probably enjoying our misery.”

“I am _not!_ ”

Lena giggled. It sounded wetter than usual, and Lúcio resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands.

“M’not miserable, just not quite as hale as I would like. The sneezing is alright, but the nausea and coughin’ is such a downer.” She shrugged, smiling. “Could be worse, though. I could be Hana.”

“Oh fuck no.”

“Oh _yes_.” And, sick or no sick, Zarya’s grin was wide enough to almost look painful. “Hana’s caught it, too?”

“Seemin’ that way. She felt fine until lunch, and then suddenly, bam! Not so fine.” She leaned against the counter behind Lúcio. “She won’t come down here, says she’s not interested in gettin’ Lúcio’s treatment,” and she swat him playfully on the shoulder, “but I’m not sure she’ll hold out. She’s got chills _bad._ ”

Zarya grunted as she rose to her feet, still smiling.

“That is my cue to exit, before more of your victims come parading in.” And she snickered at Lúcio’s exasperation.

“Yeah, whatever.” But he stood up after her. “Angie will mix your prescription when she’s done. Ya wanna come get it, or have me bring it?”

“Much as such a thing pains me, I am going to sleep until dinner. Just leave it on the table.” She ran her fingers through her hair before rubbing the back of her neck. She was pretty good at faking it, but he was confident that she was far more drained than she let on. “You still know how to get in, yes?”

“Yup, long as your door will let me.”

Zarya gave him a tired nod, and Lena a lazy wave, as she turned and strode from the clinic. Well, one crisis averted. Or at least temporarily delayed.

Lúcio felt Lena sling an arm around his shoulders, once the coast was clear.

“So, love, you wanna tell me why you apparently have access to Zarya’s door? The biometrics shouldn’t let anyone in… unless they’ve been _programmed_ in.”

Aaaaand there, face-first into his next problem. He deliberately did not look at her, because all he would see was her cheeky face, and she was better at reading people than she gave on.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s _everything_ to tell.” And the arm around his neck got tighter.

Thank his stars that he heard Angela stir behind him, and that Lena had the attention span of a humming bird. Mind like a steel trap, so she’d be back to torment him later, but for the next at least five minutes as she waved and bounced and sneezed loudly around Angela, he was free.

And then Hanzo marched brusquely in, fiercely requesting something to alleviate McCree’s terrible, hideous, disgusting illness, and Lúcio could not piece together an excuse fast enough to leave.

Zarya was going to ride him about this for the foreseeable future.

And not in the fun way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was one hell of a brain dump. I am almost sorry. Almost. :3
> 
> For more about the seagulls, you want to read a fic done by a good friend of mine, found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7748950). You will regret nothing, because it's hilarious.


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